Nightmare
by Absinthe-and-oreos
Summary: While a vicious mid-summer storm rages over New York City, Tristram Pendergast wakes up from a nightmare. One-shot.
**Nightmare**

New York City, mid-summer.  
Another long day during which its inhabitants desperately tried to find a way to cope with the stifling hot weather had come to an end. The heat had abated somewhat and now, great purple thunderclouds hung over the city, tormenting its streets and buildings with rain and thunder.  
Although outside the storm was steadily growing worse and worse, the apartment belonging to Special Agent Pendergast was as quiet as ever.  
In the living room on the fifth floor of the famous -some would say infamous- Dakota building, a lone person sat reading on a handsome sofa, conveniently positioned in front of the hearth. The regular turning of a page and the occasional sharp _crack_ of a spark escaping the dying fire were the only sounds disrupting the near-total silence.  
Within the thick, stone walls of the Dakota, the thunder was nothing more than a distant rumble. If it weren't for the tiny gap in one of the curtains, through which every now and then flashes of bluish-white lighting could be seen, it was hard to believe it was such an onslaught outside.

Aloysius Pendergast looked up from the book in his hands, gazing into the flames. Soon, the fire would be reduced to a pile of glowing ashes and there would no longer be enough light to make out what he was reading. To continue reading would mean he'd have to turn on the lights; something he'd always had a peculiar aversion to, especially whenever it wasn't a strict necessity. The book would have to wait for tomorrow. It was a rare volume he'd been meaning to re-read for quite some time, but never got around to doing due to the severe lack of free time that came with the job of being a Special Agent for the FBI. It had quite some interesting texts, providing one knew how to interpret them correctly.  
Pendergast had just made his way over to the hearth, about to extinguish the remnants of the fire and close the curtains, when he heard a sound that had not been there moments before.  
Hurried footsteps coming down the hallway.  
"Father?"  
Pendergast turned. Tristram stood in the doorway, barefoot. His hair was disheveled and he looked as if he'd cried.  
"Tristram? Did the storm outside wake you?"  
"Yes... No. It's not that," his son said somewhat timidly. His eyes darted nervously across the room before settling on his father, as though expecting to be set upon at any moment. Then he said, "May I... May I sit with you?" He spoke so softly that his words were barely audible over the rumbling thunder. Pendergast sat back down. "Of course you may, he said. "Come, sit down so you can tell me what's keeping you awake."  
But instead of sitting down next to him, his son crawled directly on his lap and put his head on Pendergast's shoulder. The agents' eyes widened in surprise, but he made no attempt to disengage.  
"Shall I prepare something for you?" he asked, when Tristram showed no intention of telling what was troubling him. "Milk with honey? Or would you rather like something else?" Tristram shook his head. "A blanket, perhaps?" Again, the boy shook no.  
"Pray tell, what is it that's troubling you?  
"Nightmares," Tristram mumbled in his shoulder.  
"Nightmares," Pendergast slowly repeated. That explained why his son appeared at breakfast with puffy eyes, looking as if he had not slept at all.  
Silence fell.  
Every time lightning flashed, Tristram flinched.  
At this, Pendergast was unable to suppress a surge of irritation. Was it normal for boys of Tristram's age to behave like this whenever nightmares plagued their sleep?  
But then, Pendergast thought grimly, 'normal' was an adjective unfit for describing the Pendergast family. And Tristram wasn't a normal boy either. His life in captivity had left its marks. And although he rarely talked about the fifteen dark years in Nova Gódoi, Pendergast figured the boy had every reason to have nightmares.  
Remorse immediately drowned his irritation. After all, it wasn't the boys' fault he had these moments of disquiet. Nobody but _der Bund_ was to blame for the unusually troubled lives of Tristram and his brother.  
 _Except perhaps, Helen..._ The thought came without warning. But before it could fully develop itself, Pendergast's musings were interrupted by the sound of Tristram, sobbing quietly on his shoulder. His tears were falling onto the expensive fabric of Pendergast's suit.  
"Shh, shh it's all right, it's all right," Pendergast said, while gingerly patting his son on his back. What to say? What to do? When nothing he said seemed help, Pendergast took Tristram's head in hands.  
"My dear Tristram, please listen to me," he said. Tristram looked at his father, attempting to blink away the tears that refused to stop streaming. His father rarely addressed him like that but when he did, it usually was a request for his undivided attention.  
"Dreams, including nightmares, are nothing more than the result of your brain re-organizing itself. The images you see as a result may feel like they are real, yet they are in no way and therefore, they cannot hurt you. Nobody can do you any harm while you're here. You know that, don't you?"  
Tristram nodded, wiping his tears with a quick motion. As though angry with himself for weeping in front of his father.  
"I see them," he whispered in a small voice.  
For the shortest of moments, Tristram could see something akin to bewilderment on his fathers' face. A most rare occurrence, as far as he could tell.  
"Them?" his father repeated, releasing Tristram's face.  
"Yes, _them_... The dead."  
When Pendergast remained silent, Tristram continued. After a moment of gathering enough courage, he said "Every time during thunderstorms the doctors used to... Used to do _things_ to us. Experiments."  
"Experiments? On you?" his father interrupted.  
"Not so often, I don't know why... But the others, they weren't so lucky." He shuddered. "I see their faces, he continued, they ask me why I didn't die. Why I didn't come with them. They are blaming me for their deaths, demanding me to join them..."  
It isn't often that agent Pendergast finds himself at a loss of words, but this was such a moment.  
After a while he asked, "Those people, do you see them at this moment?"  
"No. I am with you now. They only show up when I'm alone."  
Now it was Pendergast who pulled his son in a tight, but brief embrace.  
Then he said, "Come, Tristram. It's time for you to go back to bed."  
"Why? I want to stay here."  
"Because it is late and more importantly, you are very cold. And no-" he said resolutely, "don't try to deny it, I know you're shivering."  
"But what if they come back?"  
"They won't, because I am coming with you."  
Tristram opened his mouth to protest once again, but then thought the better of it and followed his father out of the room.

* * *

"Would you like me to read you something?" Tristram lay in bed. Now that the storm had passed, he seemed to have calmed down a bit.  
At this question, Tristram looked at his father in mild surprise.  
"Thank you, that's nice of you. But I can read for myself now Father," he said, with a hint of pride in his voice.  
Suddenly Pendergast realized the boy had never been read a bedtime story before. He spoke quickly to avoid thinking about this sorry fact for too long.  
"I know you can Tristram, but I think you'll enjoy just listening for a while. To help clear your mind before you go to sleep, as it were. Now, which book should I get you?" he said, looking over at the small pile of books on the desk.  
"Just the one on the top. It's part of a whole series. That one is the second book, because I only started last week. But I really like it so far!"  
Pendergast went to retrieve the book. The cover showed a black-haired boy with round glasses and a striking lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He was tightly holding on to a phoenix's long, beautifully colored tail while it soared through the air.  
Pendergast read its title, then he turned the book over in his long-fingered hands, as if inspecting it.  
"Where did you get these books? I am quite sure I do not have any of these in my library."  
"Vincent lent them to me. He said that they may not be entirely right for my age, but everybody should have read them at least once."  
Pendergast raised an eyebrow. "Did he? How very thoughtful of him..."  
From the moment Vincent D'Agosta had met Tristram, he'd taken on the task to educate the boy and to help him settle in New York City. And although he had mercifully chosen to leave Bud Light out of this process, (predominantly because Pendergast had strictly forbidden him to) he had introduced him to pizza. Resulting in Tristram begging Pendergast every other day if they could have it for dinner. After two weeks' worth of resistance Pendergast had finally, though very reluctantly, given in.  
And thus, for once, instead of silver tableware, grease-stained pizza boxes filled the dining table. Spectacularly out of place with their exquisite surroundings.  
It was clear Vincent's definition of 'education' differed from his own, which was illustrated even now by his peculiar choice of books. Yet, judging from what he'd written under his pseudonym Campbell Dirk, Vincent D'Agosta has always had a taste for unedifying literature. Pendergast decided it would be better not to share the latter with his son.  
"Where shall I begin?" He settled himself in a chair opposite the bed and began to read.  
Indeed, this sort of prose wasn't at all what Pendergast usually read. And reading to somebody was also something he had never done before.  
Tristram, however, did not seem to mind his father sometimes made mistakes. Although he lay with his eyes closed, his white-blonde hair in stark contrast with the dark blue pillow, Pendergast knew he eagerly listened to every word he read.  
His son also did not seem bothered by the annoying Latinizations the writer made use of in several occasions. This was something that made Pendergast decide that if the choice had been his to make, these books would never have entered his apartment.  
When he came across another Latinized incantation -a spell used for disarming another wizard- for the fourth time in a much too short stretch of time, Pendergast stopped reading.  
"This writer, and thus her writing, seems suffer from a severe lack expertise required to recognize and respect Latin as a language, and I think she ought to have-" He was spared the trouble of providing further explanation. Tristram was fast asleep.  
One arm folded underneath his pillow, the other hidden under the blankets, for he had pulled them up so high only his nose and forehead were visible. His chest rose and fell at even intervals.  
Pendergast closed the book. For a while, he listened to the boys' quiet breathing.  
Then he silently rose from his chair, laid the book back on its pile, and made to leave the room.  
Halfway there, he stopped. As though suddenly changing his mind.  
Pendergast made his way back over to the bed, bent over his sleeping son and carefully, very carefully placed a kiss on his forehead.  
Then he left, closing the door behind him.


End file.
